The Pirate Read online

  The Pirate

  Kate Hoffmann

  SWASHBUCKLING-TIME-TRAVEL!

  Griffin Rourke: Pirate.Spy. He wants revenge on the infamous buccaneer Blackbeard,for killing his father. And nothing-not even a bewitching woman named Meredith-is going to stop him! When Meredith finds Griffin washed up on shore,she cant believe her eyes.The handsome pirate of her dreams has come to life! But she hasnt counted on her lover's 18th century need for vengeance and that he needs to return to his own time.

  Kate Hoffmann

  The Pirate

  A book in the For Her Eyes Only series, 1996

  Dear Reader,

  One of the best things about romance novels is that I get to fall in love right along with my heroine. And never has that been more true than with the hero of The Pirate, my ninth book for Temptation. From the moment Griffin Rourke appeared in my mind and on the pages of my manuscript, I knew he'd be a special hero-a man impossible to resist. After all, he brought with him all the chivalry and valor of an age long past And he was pretty darn handsome, too!

  As I lay in bed last winter with my leg in a cast (the result of a nasty fall on the ice), I began to spin the story of how Griffin came to be in our time. And as I wrote, Griffin began to spin his own kind of magic, pulling both me and my heroine, Meredith Abbott, under his spell. When I finally sent the manuscript off to my editor, I wondered whether Griffin would have the same effect on her as he did on me. I didn't have to wait long for her answer. She soon called with the news that she, too, had lost her heart to Griffin.

  Now it's time to share this hero with all of you, my readers. I hope you enjoy The Pirate. And I also hope that you lose a little piece of your heart to Griffin Rourke!

  Happy Reading,

  Kate Hoffmann

  P.S. I love to hear from my readers. Please write to me:

  c/o Harlequin Temptation

  225 Duncan Mill Road

  Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K

  Canada

  1

  A long shriek sliced through the night like a banshee's lament, rattling the windows and whirling around the cottage until the wail obliterated everything but the pounding of her heart in her throat and the taste of panic in her mouth. Meredith Abbott wedged herself farther into the corner of the musty closet and buried her face in her knees, pressing her bent arms against her ears.

  "It'll be over soon," she murmured to herself. "It can't go on forever. It can't."

  This very same terror had haunted her childhood, but after so many years of undisturbed sleep, Meredith had assumed she'd outgrown the nightmare. After all, she was a woman now, nearly twenty-nine years old-a woman reliving the most frightening night of her life.

  While other children may have dreamed of dragons beneath the bed or cackling crones lurking in the shadows, Meredith had dreamed of Hurricane Delia. And now, with another Delia screaming outside the windows of the gray-shingled cottage, Meredith's fears had returned with such astounding clarity that she wondered if she had ever really left them behind.

  "Shiver me timbers! Awwwk! Thar she blows!"

  "Shut up, Ben!" Meredith whispered. The gray parrot flapped its wings, the movement eerily illuminated on the closet walls like some bizarre shadow-puppet game. The electricity had failed six hours ago and all she had to scare away the dark and her demons was an old hurricane lamp, the flame sputtering and swaying with every draft that slipped beneath the closet door.

  "Would you perchance have a piece of cheese?" Ben inquired, punctuating the request with a wolf whistle and another squawk.

  If she hadn't been so preoccupied with her phobias, Meredith probably would have throttled the bird then and there. First, he'd presented a recitation of every nautical cliché in the book and now, he'd started quoting his namesake, Ben Gunn from Treasure Island. But in all honesty, she was glad she didn't have to face Delia alone. She'd faced the hurricane alone when she was just a child and the experience had haunted her until the day she'd sailed away from Ocracoke Island on the Hatteras ferry.

  "Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum!" Ben cried.

  "Rum," Meredith repeated. "I could use a good stiff drink right now. Are you buying?"

  "I takes my man Friday with me!"

  "Ah, Robinson Crusoe now, is it? Imagine my luck. I'm sharing a closet with a parrot more widely read than most of my graduate students."

  "Aye, matey."

  Maybe she shouldn't have come back to Ocracoke after all, but it had seemed the perfect setting to work on her newest scholarly endeavor. She'd taken a year's sabbatical from her teaching position at the College of William and Mary to finish her biography on Blackbeard-the book that would assure her spot on the top of the list for the Sullivan Fellowship. And once she'd been awarded the fellowship, she'd be first in line for a tenured position. After that, she planned to be the youngest department chairperson on campus.

  She had arrived on the island off the coast of North Carolina right after Labor Day, and for reasonable rent, she'd set up housekeeping in a roomy cottage on the water overlooking Pamlico Sound and Teach's Hole, the channel where the infamous Blackbeard had once anchored his sloop, Adventure.

  The first three weeks had been idyllic, the simple rhythms of island life settling back into her blood. Once an Ocracoker, always an Ocracoker, they'd told her. She'd been accepted into the tight-knit community as if she'd never left. After all, her father had been an islander and these people had all but raised her after her mother died. She was family and she'd come home.

  When the first storm warnings had sounded, she'd considered leaving the island on the next ferry, but instead, she'd stupidly decided to face her fears and ride out the storm. After all, Horace had been declared only a tropical storm, not yet a dreaded hurricane like Delia, and Ocracoke had weathered much worse.

  By the time Horace had been upgraded to a category-one hurricane, it had been too late to leave. The ferries were safely moored on the mainland and she was left to face eighty-mile-per-hour winds, driving rain and a surging sea-alone.

  Meredith leaned back against the wall. It was nearly midnight and the wind still howled outside, the rain scratching against the glass like a hag's fingernails. She didn't have the courage to venture out of the safety of the bedroom closet-not until the storm showed signs of weakening. She grabbed the lantern and held it up to survey her cramped surroundings, desperate for anything to occupy her mind. A stack of books at her elbow caught her eye and she pulled a dusty volume off the top.

  The smell of mildew touched her nose as she held the book up to the lantern light. The gold inlaid letters on the cover were burnished by age, but the title was still legible.

  Rogues Across Time. The author's name was worn from the spine, and a dark stain obliterated the name on the title page.

  She turned back the leather-bound cover and the book fell open to an illustration, a finely rendered, black-and-white drawing-of a pirate. A shiver ran through her at the strange coincidence, another in a long line of happenstance, little bits of luck and good fortune that seemed to be tossed in her path by some greater force.

  "Stop scaring yourself," she said out loud. "Everything happens for a logical reason. You don't believe in fate."

  Still, she could understand why a person might. When she'd arrived at the real-estate office after disembarking the ferry, she'd been told that the old cottage she'd originally rented on the wooded path called Howard Street was not available. Instead, the real-estate agent had given her the keys to a larger cottage on the water-overlooking the exact spot where Blackbeard used to drop anchor. Twist of fate number one.

  The cottage came along with twist of fate number two, the owner's pet parrot, a salty-tongued bird that would have made any sailor a fine companion. With Ben Gunn sitting on his perch spou
ting "nauticisms" and Meredith at her computer, the atmosphere had seemed perfect for writing the definitive biography of Blackbeard. She had never worked harder or written better in her life.

  And then came Horace-twist of fate number three. A hurricane hadn't hit the island for more than twelve years. But then again, hurricanes usually hit the Outer Banks in nine-year cycles, so she really couldn't count Horace as fate, and he certainly couldn't be considered good fortune.

  Now, as she stared down at the picture of the pirate, an overwhelming sense of apprehension assailed her, as if she was suddenly powerless against this greater force. Something was about to happen, she could feel it in the air, and it frightened her.

  "Stop it!" Meredith scolded.

  "Stop it!" Ben mimicked.

  "This storm's got me so tense I'm beginning to imagine things."

  She purposefully returned her attention to the book, running her finger over the illustration, taking in each detail. The pirate had long dark hair that framed aristocratic features. He wore knee breeches, a flowing white linen shirt and a dark waistcoat. Two leather straps crisscrossed his chest with small pistols tucked in loops along them. In his right hand was a short, curved cutlass, and tucked into his belt, a dagger.

  Meredith was surprised by the accuracy of the drawing, considering Hollywood's imprint on the image of a pirate-eye patch and peg leg, tricorn and gold earring, and the requisite bird on the shoulder. Her gaze drifted back to his face. All right, so maybe the drawing wasn't entirely accurate. This pirate looked more like one of those male models that appeared in designer-underwear ads than a real buccaneer from the bounding main.

  She focused on the illustration, trying to block out the weather that raged around the cottage, allowing the image to drift off the page and into her mind. Since her girlhood, she'd been fascinated by the legends of pirates, the ruthless men who plied the waters of the Outer Banks, preying on ships with merciless abandon. It was with the stories of pirates that her love of history took root.

  But as she'd grown older, the fascination had fueled a bizarre fantasy, a fantasy so uncharacteristic of her normal, conservative nature that she'd been embarrassed to even think about it. The notion was borne of pure romance and based on nothing resembling reality.

  In her dreams, the pirate, a devilishly handsome rogue, would come to her at midnight, slipping into her bedroom. His hand would cover her mouth as she put up a halfhearted struggle. After he'd bound her hands and gagged her, he would toss her over his shoulder and take her to his ship. From there, the fantasy would become more erotic, a sensual dance between a predator and his prey.

  But that was as far as the fantasy ever went. She'd usually wake up before the first item of clothing was discarded and no matter how hard she tried to resume the dream, she'd never managed to complete it.

  Why bother? She knew how it would end. Her fear of intimacy would overwhelm her and she'd run away…the same way she had in real life. At first, she'd blamed her fears on practicality. Outside of her work, she had little room in her life for a real relationship. But as time passed, she realized that all the years spent in scholastic pursuits, her nose buried in history books while other girls thought only about boys, had done little to prepare her for a real relationship. She had less knowledge of the opposite sex than the average nun.

  "I was born too late," Meredith murmured as she stared at the drawing. She'd always wanted to live in an earlier time, when life was more immediate, more exciting- when men were heroic and courageous and chivalrous. And women were modest… and virginal.

  But since that hadn't been possible, she'd chosen the next best thing-she had majored in history in college and spent her life reading and writing about the past. Her doctoral dissertation focused on American maritime history-to be specific, colonial pirates and privateers.

  "Call me Ishmael," Ben implored in a raucous voice.

  Meredith jumped at the sound, clutching the open book to her breast. "I'll call you parrot potpie if you don't stop with the quotes!" she replied. The image of the bird between two pastry crusts brought a hesitant smile. "Parrot potpie," she repeated. "Yum, yum."

  "Awk! Parrot potpie," Ben mimicked. "Yum, yum."

  Meredith glanced back down at the pirate and traced her finger along the lines of his face. Strange how he looked so much like the man in her dreams. As she held the book, she felt a pulsing warmth seep into her icy hands. Suddenly, the book seemed to vibrate with a life of its own. Startled, Meredith drew in a sharp breath and quickly snapped it shut before replacing it on top of the stack.

  She wasn't sure how long she stared at the closed volume, trying to arouse the fantasy again, but when Ben ruffled his wings, attracting her attention, she dragged her gaze away. Only then did she realize that an eerie silence had descended on the cottage. The wind had stilled and the rain now drummed softly on the roof. She glanced down at her watch. It read exactly midnight.

  She drew a deep breath and pushed open the closet door, then unfolded her stiff legs and crawled out. Ben flapped out behind her. The lantern illuminated the bedroom around her, casting giant shadows on the walls.

  She made a quick survey of the house's interior, finding very little damage-just a few broken windowpanes in the bathroom. After placing the parrot back on his perch, she continued her search for destruction.

  The screened porch which overlooked the Sound hadn't fared well. She stepped out the door, picking her way through twisted wire mesh, upended lawn furniture and debris from the live oaks scattered about the property. Warily, Meredith made her way down the stairs and out to the yard. The calm was unnerving after the chaos just a few minutes before.

  The waves still crashed against the shore, encroaching on the lawn with every surge. But the rain, no longer blown into stinging shards, now seemed almost as soothing as a springtime shower.

  She held up the lantern and stared out into the darkness. A flash of white caught her eye and Meredith squinted to see what it was. An odd piece of flotsam, half-black, half-white, lay on the lawn, just beyond the reach of the water. Slowly, she walked across the surf-saturated grass, keeping her eyes on the strange shape. It moved once, but she was certain it had only been a play of light or the breeze, even though the air was deadly calm.

  Common sense told her to return to the house and assess the damage in the light of day, but she found herself drawn to the water's edge. Only when she stood directly over the form did she realize she was looking at a man.

  "Oh, Lord!" she murmured. Dropping onto one knee, Meredith placed the lantern near his head and gently turned him from his side to his back. He moaned softly but didn't regain consciousness. His long wet hair was plastered across his face and she pushed it away. A thick black beard obscured his features, but there was something about him that seemed familiar. So familiar, and yet entirely nameless. Even in the dim light, she was certain she didn't know this man.

  He was wearing a torn white shirt, an odd vest, and, of all things, breeches. A pair of black leather boots covered his feet and legs to the knee. And around his waist was fixed a scabbard which held no weapon.

  Meredith groaned. "I should have known. You're one of Tank Muldoon's boys."

  Trevor Muldoon, known on the island as "Tank," ran a waterfront tourist trap, a restaurant and bar called the Pirate's Cove. All of his waiters dressed as pirates, adding to the restaurant's ambience and popularity. But most of the waiters were rowdy college kids who'd left the island right after Labor Day.

  "What did you do?" Meredith scolded. "Slam down a few rum punches before you decided to experience a hurricane firsthand?" She shook his shoulder. "Come on, get up before the tide washes you away."

  He moaned again and turned his head toward her. A trickle of blood slid down along his temple before the rain washed it away. Meredith cursed softly. She couldn't just leave him out here, but what else was she supposed to do? He was too big to pick up and carry into the house.

  She drew a deep breath and tried to calm her
jangled nerves. She should phone for help. The police would come and drag him away to jail, giving him time to dry out before they sent him on his merry way.

  An errant breeze played at the flame of the lantern. She sucked in a sharp breath as a wash of light fell across the man's face. Even though his shaggy hair and beard made him appear uncommonly fierce, right now he looked vulnerable, helpless.

  Slowly, she reached out and brushed the rain off his forehead, her fingers tracing his strong features. As she felt his damp skin beneath her fingers, her breath stopped in her throat. He was so cold, so still. A shiver skittered down her spine and she snatched her hand away and clutched it to her chest.

  Warily, she stood, then backed away from him, filled with a strange sense of foreboding. He was a perfect stranger and she should be frightened. Meredith Abbott was usually leery of pretty much everything, especially men. But this man, lying half-dead on her beach, didn't scare her.

  No, what truly frightened her were the forces that had brought him here.

  Meredith flopped down onto the floor, every muscle in her body aching with cold and exhaustion. Her pirate lay sprawled next to her on the couch where she'd finally settled him after dragging him inside. Ben stared at them both from his perch in the corner, silent, suspicious of the stranger.

  As soon as she'd closed the door behind him, the wind and rain had kicked up again, almost on cue, resuming its former fury. But this time, she couldn't run for the closet. The pirate didn't look at all well and, at the moment, she was the only one available to tend to him. She efficiently gathered all the candles and lanterns from the rest of the house and brought them into the living room. The cottage was well-stocked with both, for the island suffered power outages during most storms.

  As she set a kerosene lamp on the coffee table, the pirate moaned again, then muttered something she couldn't understand. His expression suddenly turned angry, agitated, and she was again reminded of how menacing the man looked. His clothes were in tatters and his face was covered with a scruffy black beard. Tall and broad-shouldered, he barely fit on the couch. She gently pushed his shoulders back and in a few moments he relaxed. If he were lucid, she knew she'd be no match for his strength.